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***
Just as predicted, I landed in Savannah with an empty stomach and a splitting headache. The flight was delayed by half an hour, too, so instead of having time to check into the hotel and clean up first, I need to head straight to the press conference. Turns out Banana Ball is bigger than I thought, so big that, as the world tour closes for the only two teams in its league, they’ve decided to expand, bringing in two new teams who start a mini-introduction tour of their own. They’re all about publicity in Banana Ball and have lined up writers from six major mags to accompany the tour and help build buzz. My fucking around couldn’t have come at a better time for Yarro.
I head toward the taxi stand, but as I approach the last taxi, a guy flies past me and climbs in. He waves a hand my way.
“Sorry, in a rush,” he calls, then the asshole takes off, stealing my fucking taxi.
Great. I pull out my phone and search for a ride on one of the apps. The nearest is five minutes away, not bad, but it’s a fucking Luxury SUV and it’s twice the fare it would have been. Another taxi could pull up before then, but I can’t risk being late. It’s my only option.
I book the ride and spend a few minutes grabbing some snacks from the vending machines to put something in my stomach. I hate planes and normally spend the whole time either in the bathroom hurling up my guts or in my seat trying not to. When the SUV pulls up I quickly jump in the back and the old guy behind the wheel immediately turns and frowns.
“You make a mess back there, it’s a five-hundred-dollar cleaning fee,” he says, and I shake my head.
“I’m fine, I swear. It’s only planes that I have trouble with.”
“I hope so. You look like shit.”
What a way to make your customer feel at ease. Does he even care about his star rating?
“Thanks,” I reply dryly, and he turns back and pulls out. Inspecting my reflection in the tinted windows, I have to agree with him. I don’t look great. Running my fingers through my hair, I try to fix the curls into place, but since growing a bit longer, they still look a mess. I’ll throw some water through it before going in. It’s not like anyone will be looking at me, anyway. Tossing back a chocolate bar, the sweet gooeyness ebbs the rumble of my stomach and settles my mood a little.
The traffic is bad through Savannah and the expected time of arrival keeps changing, growing closer and closer to the conference start.
“Look, I really have to be there before five.”
“It’s only another few blocks, you’ll make it,” he tells me as the traffic crawls to a stop.
I pull out my phone and check the map. There’s a path through a few streets not accessible by car that can get me there in two minutes at a slow jog.
I open the door, and he spins.
“What ya think you doing, kid?”
“I’ll go the rest of the way on foot. Don’t worry. I paid the full fare and gave you five stars, too.”
His app chimes, displaying my review, and he turns to check it. I take my opportunity and pop a tiny yellow duck on the back seat before closing the door.
“Have a lovely…” the driver calls, pausing—maybe when he spots the duck, but I don’t look back to see. I’m already jogging toward the tall office buildings situated beside the stadium. I’m thankful I only packed a backpack and a small carry-on for this trip. It’s making jogging through the streets far easier than it would have been dragging a full suitcase. But the sun is beating down on me, and I can already feel the sweat prickling my skin.
I reach the building with a few minutes to spare and pause to the side to pour water over my face. I run some over my head, my breathing steadying as the cool water slips through my mop of hair and drips down my back. My shirt sticks to my skin, so I strip it off and grab another from my backpack. Still out of breath but feeling at least a little human, I go to walk inside. Then a taxi pulls up and the guy who stole mine earlier climbs out. Motherfucker was coming here, too. As he rushes for the doors, I quickly cut him off to go through first.
“Sorry, in a rush,” I say, strolling past him and into the building.
Chapter two
Ian
My cheeks burn, butI follow the hot, sweaty stranger who just called me out for stealing his taxi into the building. Please God, don’t let him be a player. That’s all I need for my first assignment out of the gossip column, a beef with a fucking baseball player. I don’t know much about Banana Ball, except what I’ve seen on their socials. I spent the entire flight watching their reels. Seems like there’s as much or maybe even more dancing than actual baseball, but if this mini tour for the new teams gets me writing about actual sports and not just the hookups, addictions, and lifestyles of major league players, I’ll take it.
I show my ID to the woman at the table, and she hands me my pass.
“You’re the last to arrive. Made it just in time, too,” she says with a smile. I’m sure it’s meant to be comforting, but it does nothing to settle my racing heart. I loop the lanyard over my neck and head inside. The room is a bustle of energy already. No one from the league has arrived, but writers from every majorand minor publication are already here. They all mingle like they’ve known each other for years. Truth be told, they probably have. I’m the new guy on the scene. I spot an empty chair in the middle and scoot down, excusing myself on the way.
“Anyone sitting here?” I ask the guy who’s hunched over, rummaging through something under his chair. His head snaps up, and I can’t fucking believe it. It’s hot angry guy from outside.
“Nope,” he replies, his dark blue eyes trailing from my uncertain smile down my chest. His lips pick up at the corner like he’s about to smile. Maybe he’s over the whole me stealing his taxi thing. He might even find it funny now that we’re both here in the same place. But his smile doesn’t come. Instead, he almost growls and then turns away to continue to look for something under his chair.
I guess we’re not over it then.
